


Another Try

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom muses about a terrible mistake from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Try

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a prompt from THFrustration requesting the song "Another Try" sung by Josh Turner and Trisha Yearwood. The song was written by Christopher Stapleton and Jeremy N. Spillman and some of the lyrics are incorporated into the story.

Do we all have “the one who got away?” Do we all have those little flashes of moments and a smiling face that pop into our mind whether or not we have pulled them off the dusty shelves of our memories? 

I fear I have too many of the same kind of story on those shelves; row after row of incomplete volumes. Most of them don’t even have a title, although they all have a first page. Some have a chapter or two. But they always end the same way, with me grabbing the pen and leaving a streak of ink on the page. I shove the cap on until the next perfect character comes my way and the pen is ready to write again. Each of them, they are all always perfect in the beginning. Until they aren’t. Oh, I always have a justifiable reason, at least I have become quite skilled at convincing myself of that.

The reason I’m alone? I know that by heart. Normally the reason is my career. The time is now, Tom, I tell myself. You can’t assume that this particular opportunity will ever be in front of you again. Don’t waste time. Take it. Go off somewhere for months at a time and throw yourself into this new role. Enjoy it. Soon, it will seem like tomorrow, you will be too old and these parts will go to the next eager young actor who is willing to sacrifice anything, even love. Even her.

The one who got away.

All the things I felt and never shared, those were the things that would never be written on the pages of this volume. I wanted her to be the last one. Don’t we all want a “last one?” Isn’t that why we try and try, letting our hearts be broken again and again? So, why? Why was I so terrified when I realized that I didn’t want to spend forever in the dark, that I wanted her to be the one story that would define me?

What keeps us from hanging on to that “last one” is that we are terrified that they won’t be the last one. We are terrified that this will end. Maybe it will be their choice, maybe it will be your choice. We don’t think about the specifics, we just imagine the end. 

All the times she was lonely when I was there, those were the times that were written on the pages of this volume. I wanted to rip out those pages. How is something so bright, so spilling over with hope in the beginning, so exciting…how does that turn into something so different? How does it turn into something dull?

Neglect.

But your career is important, Tom, I tell myself. She knows what you do, she knows who you are. You always make sure that is understood. You don’t purposely lead someone down a path with the intent of letting go of their hand and leaving them to wander alone. You’ve never done that. 

Neglect.

That was the word she had used.

That was the word that had been softly spoken from her lips.

Neglect.

At first I was stunned.

Neglect?

Would I ever be the 9-5 man who came home from the office in his suit and tie, briefcase in hand? Was that what she wanted? 

Neglect?

I countered that she knew what I did and who was I from the beginning, that she shouldn’t have let this continue if she was biding her time and waiting to try and change me. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t accurate.

I knew that.

And I said those things anyways.

Like a fool.

It was cruel. It was vicious.

That’s how guilt presents itself. It tries to convince you that you are the victim and not the perpetrator. 

After her.

After her was when I became brave enough, or perhaps it was desperate enough, to force myself to examine the pattern. Like a surgeon in the operating room, I peeled back the layers that I had built up over the years. And what was the main problem? Self-deception. Self-deception, how sly it is! What a potent drug! The supplier and the junkie existing in the same person, no worry of shortage or of sweating through a night or two without a fix.

I let her leave. 

Every time I heard my own voice say something about following your dreams, about never giving up, about fighting for what you want, I felt more and more disgusted with myself.

I let her walk away without a fight. And for what? To see my name in a stylized font on a big screen? To wear a perfectly tailored tuxedo and parade on a red carpet with flashes around me, for images that would appear in tomorrow’s edition and then be placed in the rubbish bin?

If I found myself taking my final breaths tomorrow, my work wouldn’t be there to look into my eyes and be the last thing I see. My films wouldn’t be there to hold my hand. I wanted her to be there looking into my eyes, to be the last thing I see, to be holding my hand. 

If only we could make the hands of time move in reverse! There’s no changing things that we regret. There’s no changing words that we regret.

The best that we can hope for is another chance.

Can I hope for another chance?

Yes, my work was important. But love is important. Yes, it is work. Yes. 

What was I willing to give up? And if I was willing, would it actually be giving up? 

I wouldn’t make the same mistake again with her.

Not again.

With her, that mistake had been made for the last time.

Because I wanted her to be the last one.

I swore to myself that this time, I would fight.

I would hang on for dear life if love gave me another try.

If she gave me another try.


End file.
